though — on her thin thick, black tangled curls, kid shoes, worn and torn at the toes, and sandaled over her white stockings, her face apparently more freckled than ever — and that was Lotty. She introduced me to two friends, one who lives with her — I was going to say permanently — a Miss Julia colloquially [sic] “Jule” Martin, and another, a New York girl, a visitor, whom they called Lotty. She showed me her garden, her plantings, fowls, the house, books, pictures &c. There was a London lithographic portrait of “her father-in-law,” a Dr Granville, a physician. M. R. S., author of a medical book, and that sort of thing. Two portraits, one a photograph, of his son Arthur Granville, alias Alleyne, Lotty’s bigamitic husband. A good-looking, gentlemanly, mildish face, irresolution and weakness about the eyebrows and mouth, a bald forehead — rather distingue and unsatisfactory. We all four lunched together, on pie, cake and tea, and Lotty entertained me with talk and books — picture ones — throughout the afternoon. I looked through her album. All sorts of rhymes to her, written by both men and women. Rhymes by her “husband” — elaborate, weakly-strong